Entrance to Rennes Vezin Penitentiary Center at dawn, one winter morning
In 2016, I left my company and my job as an engineer, entering a period of transition that profoundly changed the course of my life. I had time at my disposal, that luxury of our time. I wrote two articles about this phase, here and there, and in parallel with my career change into teaching Yoga, I became a prison visitor at the Rennes Vezin Men’s Penitentiary Center.
Becoming a prison visitor consists of coming to meet each week one or two inmates who would like to. The visitor’s intention is, through his visits, to break the solitude of the incarcerated people, to offer them a place of free and neutral speech, listening and support. The visitor is not informed of the reason that led the person to prison, his intention is to bring help through a relationship of trust with the person assigned to him by the SPIP (Prison Insertion and Probation Service). Each party is free to end the relationship at any time. ANVP text
The National Association of Prison Visitors (ANVP) supports and facilitates the missions of visitors in France. Having never entered a prison before, I felt the need to be accompanied, and I became a member – this is not an obligation to become a visitor. The ANVP helps me to first obtain the approval of the prison administration, then I have the opportunity to participate each month in group discussions bringing together a dozen people, visitors like me. During these meetings facilitated by a psychologist, everyone shares their experiences of visits to inmates and contributes to enriching the collective experience.
The ANVP periodically organizes conferences on the theme of detention with the participation of expert speakers (criminologist, judge of application of penalties, Muslim chaplain, …) and this contributes to my understanding of this universe. I become particularly aware of the extent of the links between prison and social misery, at all levels (extreme poverty, level of education, addictions, health, abuse during childhood, …) The prison functions both as a punishment for poverty, a source of impoverishment and an obstacle to reintegration upon release
In France, the prison world is largely hidden, it is literally a zone of shadow(s) of our society. What leads me there is a desire to put myself concretely at the service of others, combined with a certain curiosity towards this space that is not shown. Over the course of the visits, I gradually realize the meaning and value of this mission that may seem strange to some, even incongruous. Spending an hour each week with one or two inmates, with no other intention than to talk, is to allow them to break with isolation and maintain a link with the outside – 40% of them have no visit. It is a form of strong support for many.
Visiting prisoners also makes sense for all of us, as every inmate is destined to leave prison one day, to reintegrate into society. It then seems essential, collectively, not to find ourselves with an individual as out of place as at his incarceration, or even more so. And yet this appears to be a flaw in many penal systems, particularly in France, which has one of the highest recidivism rates in Europe.
During these moments of exchange, I have the feeling of being in my place, useful, despite the inevitable difficulties and the limits of the exercise. Visiting an inmate is a time of active listening, it is equivalent to holding up a mirror to help him see himself better. By giving him the floor and my full attention, I offer the possibility of telling his own story, of possibly confiding, of helping himself. At each new group discussion, the testimonies of other visitors make me realize a little more the close links between this practice of listening to others and Yoga, in particular the comfort provided and the transformations that can be generated. It is, I believe, at this moment, driven by the same intentions, that I want to go further on my path and offer Yoga in detention.
I contact the Yoga In Prison association, become a member and inquire about the possibilities of acting. With the help of its president Marion, who regularly leads Yoga practices in the new arrivals’ neighborhood, we convince the director of the SPIP to try the experience of Yoga in detention at the Rennes Vezin Penitentiary Center.
In 2017, I started leading weekly sessions. The practices last about an hour and a half and take place in the worship hall. They bring together a dozen inmates who come from the two Detention Houses and the Detention Center – 800 inmates in total are incarcerated at the Rennes PC, for 690 places. The worship hall is cold but rather spacious, high-ceilinged, well known to the inmates, and has the advantage of being located in the school pole, towards/outside which movements are facilitated – I quickly discover the difficulties that prisoners have in moving to different buildings.
To register for Yoga, inmates must write a letter to the SPIP and commit to coming every week or otherwise having to leave their place. I am alone with them in the worship hall, I am entrusted with an alarm box (I have never had to use it), there are surveillance cameras, and a window from which the supervisor can observe us, from upstairs. Despite this particular environment, I feel right at ease from the start because I have become familiar with the establishment, and on the Yoga side, I have been chaining training courses and leading collective practices outside for several months. Moreover, the proximity of the teachers in the school pole brings a climate of relative relaxation that contrasts with the rest of the prison.
The inmates’ adherence to the postural practice of Yoga is immediate. Prejudices quickly disappear, in particular the classic “Yoga is a soft thing for girls” because I make the bodies work in depth. Deliberately, in reaction to the generalized sedentary lifestyle in detention, I propose dynamic practices that alternate ample, synchronized movements with breathing, and long-held static postures. I use the mechanisms of temporary creation of discomfort fully, especially in the first part of the session, with the chaining of standing postures in which I engage everyone to stay for a “good” moment. Learning to use breathing to accept the body’s limits as best as possible when they appear: in short, experiencing on the mat the acceptance of a certain frustration, and by watching the storm pass, allowing a first distancing. The bodies heat up, stretch and organize themselves on their own. Breaths lengthen. The breath finds its amplitude. Attention focuses. And when the practice slows down and the bodies settle on the ground, freed from certain tensions, the postural work changes and becomes more subtle, the presence to oneself is facilitated. Finally, it is the final immobility, during which the body and the mind can taste an unprecedented relaxation in prison, for a few minutes.
At the end of a practice, there are a jumble of faces and relaxed looks, quiet exchanges, thanks, smiles, silence. It’s the magic of Yoga at work, often a little, sometimes a lot. Prison is a hotbed of suffering, for both the body and the mind. Yoga allows the experimentation of a moment during which everything disappears except the awareness of the moment. For a time, muscular tension, hypervigilance, rumination, guilt or anxiety disappear. These particular moments mark each one of us with their imprint. Their repetition, practice after practice, allows us to gradually adapt to this space of calm naturally present within, and to open up horizons of discernment, potentially getting rid of certain useless or harmful behaviors. Sometimes, some very strong words are pronounced aloud: freedom, escape, peace.
Article on Yoga in the prison newspaper written by the inmates – 2020
If there is a great diversity of nationalities, confessions, characters, the average age is rather young, and the temperaments rather sporty. The postural practice of Yoga is an excellent complement to bodybuilding, which is very commonly practiced in prison. I often mention it as a “smart bodybuilding of the body and mind” or the possibility of “letting go of the old shell and starting a molt”.
Thanks to word of mouth, the waiting list never empties, and in 2018 it is decided to start a second weekly slot, I’m super happy! In agreement with the SPIP, I dedicate it to more fragile people, while on the first slot I continue the same type of practice, bringing together inmates already familiar with Yoga and/or with a functional body.
In this second group, I quickly face situations that are new to me: an amputated man comes to practice in a wheelchair, another comes with his crutches to tell me that he had a heart attack 2 days ago and that he will not be able to practice before next week – he had previously already had several strokes in prison. I see injured bodies, polytraumatized, unrehabilitated, bodies long neglected or held in silence, bodies that bear the stigmata of substance use, indigence, years of life on the street. I welcome men with addiction disorders, attention disorders, post-traumatic stress, anxiety-depressives, perpetrators (and witnesses) of attempted suicide in prison,… Some are sedated, and go to the infirmary to take their treatment before coming to practice. I have no information from the administration about their condition, I do according to what they tell me, or do not tell me, what I perceive from them.
Photo Robert Sturman, Yoga practice in a Californian prison
For all those, I orient the postural practice towards more softness, I try to bring the attentions towards pleasant sensations, slowness, and reconciliation – which is not always easy. I do my best, I learn to be satisfied with it. I am surprised by the marks of fraternity and mutual aid common among inmates who for some did not know each other before doing Yoga together. I feel encouraged, sometimes moved, by the humanity that often emerges from the group. I also feel largely powerless in the face of certain situations.
In 2019, the Rennes Penitentiary Center opens a Unit for Violent Inmates (UDV), an experimental program within the Isolation Unit (QI). The UDV is designed for inmates who have been separated from the general prison population due to acts of violence committed while incarcerated—against fellow inmates and/or prison staff. For a period of 3 to 6 months, these prisoners sign a moral contract committing them to work on their violence and impulsivity. In exchange, they receive personalized individual support, including academic and psychological support, as well as access to various activities (sports, art, animal therapy, etc.).
The head of the SPIP proposed that I lead individual yoga sessions when the UDV opened. I enthusiastically accepted, always driven by my curiosity—the QI is the “hole,” the prison within the prison, a shadowy corner—and especially in 2019 as I was completing a two-year training program at the Institute of Yogatherapy that focused on individualized care and Yoga practices adaptation to various psychological and physical pathologies. I felt capable of providing assistance in such a setting, yet implementing this proved to be challenging.
First, it took me some time to get used to the QI and its very particular atmosphere that concentrated the authoritarian and brutal aspects of the prison world in one place. The cells are 9 square meters, and in the UDV, the inmate remains alone 22 hours a day—outside the UDV, it’s often even less. Each entry and exit of the inmate from their cell is done accompanied by two guards, with a systematic search. In the QI, screams and banging on doors are omnipresent. From time to time, I witness the arrival of a prisoner in the Disciplinary Quarter, following an intervention by officers in a building for an assault. The picture is often bloody, no need to elaborate. The guards work in shifts, and I perceive weariness—occasionally aggressiveness—in many of them. The tension is palpable, on both sides of the bars.
Rennes Vezin segregation unit cell before it opened in 2010
In the UDV, I lead individual yoga sessions lasting 1 to 1.5 hours, sometimes longer. I see two inmates each week. There are on average between 4 and 6 inmates in the UDV, and although the idea is to encourage participation, the activities are not mandatory. When possible, I offer the inmate an interview upon arrival, followed by a trial practice the following week to see how it goes. Most of the time, there are at least two or three who take to yoga. These are often the ones who are committed to the overall program and regularly participate in all activities. I sometimes have the opportunity to meet and practice with certain inmates in the UDV for more than 20 sessions, which allows for the work to deepen to a certain level.
The inmate and I are alone in a windowless room of about twenty square meters, equipped with surveillance cameras. In fine weather, this room is often very hot and sometimes we practice in the “walkway” which is limited to a space of the same size, with grilles and barbed wire instead of a ceiling.
My approach during these sessions is logically different from collective practices: we start from what bothers the inmate the most, “here and now”. It can be the body – the back, often, or an old injury – it can be fatigue and sleep disorders (insomnia, nightmares) which are common, more rarely it can also be the central subject of impulsivity, lack of control of anger and acting out. It is by nature very varied, with some inmates there can be a lot of talking, and sometimes during these times of active listening I find myself back in my role as a visitor (there is no visits in the QI) but I try to systematically return to the body, to use it to anchor the practice in the present.
When for a prisoner the need arises to tell his story, the door then opens to work on his dark side, work in which my intention is limited to contributing to a more complete awareness of his situation, a lighting of the corners. I do not give advice, during exchanges of this type the traditional teachings of Yoga are central and help on their own to distance oneself. Broadly speaking, the fundamental philosophies of the different traditions of Yoga are essentially the same as those of all human wisdom – except that they are also embodied in the body, the breath. I am by nature a universalist, I believe in a perennial philosophy, my opinion to put it briefly is that there is only one truth in response to the existential questions of human nature, approached from different angles by religions and various spiritual currents. At the UDV, I sometimes have long discussions about religion, especially Islam which is central in the life of some inmates and who have doubts about its compatibility with Yoga. Without ever questioning anything, I rely on what makes common sense, emphasizing the importance of a practice that aims to pacify oneself.
Michel Vaujour “Don’t free me, I am taking care of it”
For if on the one hand Yoga consists in better seeing one’s place in the world, fundamentally its practice comes down to experimenting with exercises, techniques to go in the direction of calm at all levels: the body, the breath, the mind. The practice of calm presence to oneself nourishes discernment. My intention remains to allow the inmate to better live his time at the UDV and encourage his reflection, if possible by helping him to decondition himself from harmful behaviors. An individual session makes it possible to experiment with more subtle techniques – complex to implement in a group – including the work of the breath, or certain meditative experiences.
I listen, I hear – without necessarily believing – guilt, regrets, ruminations… denial, too.
I listen, I hear – sometimes behind the words – the traumas, the suffering, always.
In this depth within the prison that is the Isolation Ward, certain depths of the soul are also revealed – darkness, light. Dispositions to the appreciation of beauty, unexpected moments of joy. Some inmates take a lucid inventory of their situation, even if peace with the past is often difficult, the challenge is to open up to the present, and to act now in a more favorable direction. Embarking on the path of truth, peace and self-love requires a strength of character that commands respect, and motivates support.
Michel Vaujour testifies in his book “My greatest escape” of the turning point that was his discovery of Yoga during a period of isolation. It is a book that I had the prison administration buy for the prison libraries and that I recommend to the inmates with whom I practice. He rightly underlines the identification of the mental walls erected by all of us, particularly in detention, and draws a path to free oneself from them.
For me, these last 8 years have been more like a long turn on the wing, confronting me with situations in life very different from my own. My interventions in prison have certainly played an important role in transforming my perception of the world, and of myself. I have chosen a path of action, I have given a lot, I have received a lot.
Great sensitivity and very beautiful testimonies collected by André Weill who taught Yoga in prison for 12 years. I read this book in 2021 during the COVID period, during which I had the opportunity to continue to intervene each week at the Penitentiary Center, and maintain a link.
Among the highlights – I couldn’t mention them all – there are first of all encounters. With inmates, some incarcerated for long sentences, and with whom I practiced for several years. With wardens and prison staff, for whom I have great consideration and empathy and the vast majority of whom do their best with the means at their disposal. With external stakeholders: visitors, teachers, animators, artists, members of associations,…, who share this same desire to encourage and support efforts towards integration, and demonstrate their humanity daily despite the wear and tear, the sinister abrasiveness of the prison.
Cases too, of course, like this 20-year-old who comes to Yoga at 10 am when the night before he witnessed the suicide of his cellmate, who had to wait several hours before the intervention of the guards who first started by blaming him for the death. Like this psychotic Pakistani inmate whom I make practice at the UDV without knowledge of his medical file while he tells me about his delusional hallucinations of government assassins in the heart of the prison. Like this 25-year-old man whom I see at the UDV, who has only known prison since he was 17, released on parole, and whom I cross paths with by chance in the penitentiary center 3 months later, with a giant scar on his stomach following a settling of scores and three bullets.
Prison is also arbitrariness, at all levels, whether it be for heating the cell or common rooms, the possession of certain personal effects or the canteen (Yoga mats are not allowed), the possibility of getting proper medical treatment, the response to a request for a visiting room, or permission: everything is subject to processes over which the inmate has no control or visibility, or almost none. It seems difficult not to give in to passivity, in which many take refuge and kill time on the game console, getting high with the means at hand. Those sentenced to long terms often develop an anxiety about release, about returning to a world that has become totally foreign to them (some do not know the internet or mobile telephony) and which will certainly not give them a gift.
Intervening in prison has brought me a lot, on several levels. In particular, my way of leading practices, with the obligation to adapt to the moment: the unexpected changes in the composition of groups, the variations from simple to double of the duration or the shift in the schedules of sessions, having to deal with multiple and frequent blockages of movements in detention, or the good disposition of the floor supervisors to let the inmates leave their cells and come to practice… At first a little on the withdrawal, in observation, my behavior gradually shifted towards the direct transmission of what I consider to be the essential in the moment – because experience has shown me that I never know if I will see the inmate again the following week. I no longer hesitate to propose Yoga poses perceived as “special” or “bizarre” in detention – like the plow pose – I no longer hesitate to touch bodies to adjust a pose – of course I ask for consent. I put myself more “in danger” on certain proposals and allow myself the possibility of experimenting, to let myself go in practice as well: Yoga nidra, kriyas, silent meditations, free movement, working in pairs… Most of the time it works, and when it doesn’t, we often laugh about it and move on to something else.
Over time my quality of presence has changed, I more easily get out of any pattern or preconception to address the present of bodies and sensations, of difficult or even delicate psychological and/or emotional situations. I have reinforced my position as a “non-healer”, but as someone who transmits means to take care of oneself, when one can.
And of course, and this is indeed the greatest gift I have received, in prison, I also got to meet myself. Through my relationship with the other, buried parts of myself come to the surface. I recognize myself in this otherness, I have the opportunity to explore my dark side, my relationship to impulsivity, violence, guilt.
Listening to the other to listen to oneself. Hearing the other to hear oneself. Welcoming the other to welcome oneself. Loving the other to love oneself.